Be a little feral with the kit.
Not loud for loud’s sake — nah, that was for the posers who thought volume equaled soul. Play like the drum like it owes you money and you were there to collect with interest.
Your right foot lives on the bass drum pedal like it was born there, whipping that beater back and forth until the head growled low enough to rattle the dead in the next county.
Regret had seen every mistake, every half-assed rehearsal, every time you held back because you were scared the band wouldn’t follow, or the crowd wouldn’t get it, or it wasn’t good enough to really go there.
“From now on, play like the beater’s already buried. Like there’s nothing left to protect. Just pure, stupid, beautiful intention.”
The next time you sit. On that throne, the first kick shakes the walls. The band just looks at each other and smiles.
They know.
Not holding back anymore.
Bury that beater.
Let the old limits rest.
Play like you mean it.